Collect
by PitFTW
Summary: She is a witch, they say, a tyrant. They say that there is a special place for her in the Land of the Dead.


Collect

**A/N: Any Super Smash Bros. fans still out there? It's been a long while, hasn't it? Well, I can't say that I'm back exactly, but I hope you enjoy this brief oneshot. Once I get my muse back, I hope to continue GA2, but until then… enjoy?**

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Servants ought to be seen and not heard. And yet, despite these warnings, there are still many a whisper that graces the halls of her house. She walks among them, head held high, footsteps like and graceful, never heeding the words that pass between thin, cracked lips. They are beneath her, she knows, lesser beings who can do little but rot between the cracks of the rocks she treads upon. She is a witch, they say, a tyrant. They say that there is a special place for her in the Land of the Dead.

Pale pink lips, unblemished as a new rose, part and laugh at such notions.

She sits upon her throne in her gilded hall, watching as the dead flutter past her. They flutter through her door, hands clasped, lips pleading, hair and eyes white with terror. They beg her, implore her, beseech her for favors. Give us food, grant us life, save us from the dead. But how can she save them if they are dead already? Some spirits are so silly like that.

Her childish laughter rings through the halls as sapphire eyes, marred by steel, close in delight.

There are some days when she leads a merry dance, winding through the lovely paths of her garden. They whisper that the roses bloom with her every step, yet the violets wilt when she stops. She is born of a lilly they say, with her snow white skin and the gold of her hair, but at the same time, she is born of a rose, with her lips pale pink and her many, many thorns. The dance she leads winds through her garden, across hill rolling hills and dales and bridges of stone. The river sings for her, the servants say, it sings a mourning song. For she is the flower that blooms in death, for life is her enemy until the very end.

The dance she leads is to the heart of her garden, to a courtyard untouched by time. Here she places, spellbound, her collection, of mighty warriors from across worlds and times. Her collection is unique, the young Queen insists, for there is none like it in all the known worlds. She has them all sitting in a circle, pathetic as dolls, but so life-like, suspended in ageless sleep. If one should go to the courtyard, one would meet the Queen. She spends much of her time playing with her dolls, smiling at the sleeping faces of warriors once proud.

Here is the man known as the Warrior of Flame, who saved one princess a hundred times. There is a boy born with great wings, who could fly to the ends of the earth and back. Yonder is the woman who walks alone, whose power is beyond any males of her world. She giggles as she introduces them, taking them by the hand, but if asked where her real prize lies, she smiles even wider.

"Why, would you like to see him?" she would ask, complete with a giggle or two. For she is the Queen and he is the King, the first doll, the first victim, held in ageless sleep.

He is the man who sits on the throne, who acts as the centerpiece of this Kingdom of Sleep. He of the golden locks, of the robes colored green, of the Blade of Evil's Bane, is the greatest treasure of all. He is the first of her victims, placed here before she crowned him King, enchanted to be autonomous only when she is near. He smiles at her approach and opens his eyes, once sharp, but now dull, blue as the summer skies. He takes her hand, she smiles, and he bends to grace it with his lips. He had rebelled long ago, but she has plucked his memory clean. Now he only knows the kingdom, the sky, and the love for his Queen.

And so they dance and they dance, an eternal waltz they dance. She steps lightly, he leads, and not a whisper can be heard. For they alone are here, amongst the Queen's gems. She only knows his heart and love, he only knows her frail touch. They rule here, together, but he cannot leave. For never again will the Queen place trust in a non-enchanted King. She loves him, she loves him, she loves him with all her heart. But never again will she trust her King, because he broke her heart.

The servants whisper that it was long ago, when the King was a farmer's boy. He had risen up, sword in hand, and tried to slay the Queen. She fell for him, that foolish girl, and took him for her own. He was the first in her collection, which would only grow and grow. She enchanted him to be docile, robbed him of his memories, and tore out his heart for love. They say that she yearns for the Hero's heart, but will settle for the Puppet King.

She is mad, the servants say, she sees no right nor wrong. She dances with her Puppet King to the beat of a soundless song. In ageless sleep her collection lies, but none so more than her King. Should she leave, should the Queen go by, he would never do a thing. Time continues for the Queen, but it has long stopped for the King. Soon enough, she ages and withers, leaving only a Puppet King.

But should one go to the courtyard of stone and behold the Queen's collection, at midnight they will see the Puppet King rise and bow to no one. He will reach out and kiss their hand before taking their body in his. And from then 'til dawn, the Puppet King, will dance with the ghost of his Queen.


End file.
